


Wakefulness

by Beleriandings



Series: Tales of Lake Mithrim [7]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drugs, Flashbacks, Gen, Guilt, Nightmares, Siblings, some violence and gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 05:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4007431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After bringing Maedhros back from Angband, Fingon stays by his bedside and watches over him day and night. He cannot sleep, and Aredhel is worried about him. Meanwhile, Turgon tries to make sense of everything that has happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wakefulness

Findekáno paced the quiet room restlessly, his eyes fixed only on the still form on the bed. Maitimo’s face was almost calm in sleep, he thought; there was no pain contorting his features now, and Findekáno wanted to believe that that was because Maitimo was healing quickly and would wake with no pain, but suspected it was mostly because of the strong sedative that the healers had finally judged it safe to give his cousin.

Findekáno stopped pacing for a moment, staring down into Maitimo’s face, the hair - cropped short now, thin and brittle and tufty as it was - falling back off his brow as he lay amongst the pillows. He looked young, Findekáno thought, young and frail and vulnerable as those children who had been the first to die on the Helcaraxë, wasting away into pale, weak ghosts until they had been too weak even to cry.

He sighed, trying yet again to touch Maitimo’s mind as he had once been able to, back in the old world across the sea. They had been so close then, their thoughts slipping between one mind and the other, if they had let them… that skill, developed over years together, had been a comfort for them both, he thought now. Even when their fathers had been set one against the other, even when he himself had thought he hated Maitimo, he realised now that he had still drawn comfort from the presence of their connection, though he had emphatically tried to ignore it then, to tear himself away from Maitimo in anger and hurt.

Now it was gone though; he could  _feel_  some small hint of Maitimo’s mind somewhere beneath the drugged haze, or at least something that was not  _unlike_  the Maitimo he had known before, but for some reason there were walls up around the mind of the cousin and the lover he had known, walls so high he barely knew how to start to get over them.

He shuddered and tried not to think about what had happened to Maitimo to him to build those walls up all about his  _fëa_. He wondered instead what he would find if -  _when_ , he thought uncomfortably, he must keep thinking  _when_  - Maitimo woke and allowed him close again.

He wondered if behind the walls there would be anything at all familiar left.

Findekáno frowned to himself, putting the thought from his mind.

His eyes were stinging with tiredness; he gritted his teeth, biting down hard on his lip, trying to let the sharp pain break through the haze of white sparks that was breaking across his unfocussed vision. He pressed his knuckles into his eyes in frustration.

He knew he could not fall asleep, not until Maitimo woke.

Not again. A while back - possibly yesterday now, he thought, or the day before - he had slipped into a doze in the chair by the bedside for a few hours or so, his hand clasping Maitimo’s limp, fragile one upon the coverlet. But even then his sleep had been fitful, halfway between nightmares and the darkest fears of his waking mind, flashing before his eyes, waking him with a painful gasp for air as though he were drowning ( _drowning in blood_ , he had thought,  _Maitimo’s blood, there was so much blood, and he had been the one that spilled it_ ) and choking, clawing for breath as his hair fell across his face, his neck aching from sleeping in the chair.

He had felt the guilt even more strongly as he had jolted Maitimo’s remaining hand when he had woken. The bones beneath the skin seemed fragile as the finest Tirion porcelain, likely to shatter at the slightest impact.

He had done enough damage already.

Findekáno had not slept after that, though the healers who came and went to change the bandages had begged and cajoled and sometimes even tried to  _order_  him to; he had ignored them all.  _After all_ , he thought bitterly,  _what use is being the son of the lord of our people if one cannot defy people who tell you to do things for your own good?_

He looked back down at Maitimo’s sleeping face, feeling, once more, the rebuff when he tried - out of habit rather than hope now - to touch Maitimo’s mind, to bring him some comfort and support.

There were scars on Maitimo’s skin now, where once there had not been, some old and silvered, some ugly pink-grey and raised, newer. One corner of his upper lip had been split by a long, jagged gash, long ago it seemed, giving his face the impression of a permanent grimace of pain. Maitimo’s eyes did not move beneath his lids, his breathing light and shallow despite the sedative.

 _Oh Maitimo_ , thought Findekáno,  _what did they do to you_?

“You know, you should really sleep, Finno” said a quiet voice behind him.

He started like a frightened animal and cursed, turning to the door to see his sister standing there watching him thoughtfully, a cast iron pot of tea and two shallow cups on a tray in her hands. He had not heard the door open.

“Irissë! How long have you been standing there?”

“A little while. You’re uncharacteristically inattentive.” She narrowed here eyes, staring at him piercingly. “Are you… alright, Finno?”

“Alright?”

She gestured at the bed. “About Maitimo. About everything.”

He tried to smile, and was unsure of the result. “Of course I am. Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Plenty of reasons. I know you suffer, Finno, I know you feel his pain. You had to cut his hand off, and that’s not a decision you can make and just carry on as normal the next day. When you returned you were covered in his blood, and you haven’t left his bedside…” she tugged at a braid of her hair, nervously. “You haven’t forgiven yourself, have you?’

"Would  _you_ , Irissë?”

She did not answer the question. Instead she pursed her lips, placing the tray down on the table. “I brought you tea.”

He breathed in, running his hand through his tangled hair in its now-ragged braids. “Tea” he said, blankly. The word seemed strange, unfamiliar. “Yes. Thank you Irissë. You can go now.”

“No, I will not go. And I’m your sister, not your servant to order around” she said sharply. She rolled her eyes when Findekáno tried to hush her, indicating Maitimo asleep on the bed. “Finno, he’s out cold, and he will need to remain so for days yet, the healers say.” She tilted her head, looking at him appraisingly. “He needs to heal. And you need to  _sleep_ , Eru damn your stubbornness.”

“Yes” said Findekáno, sitting down in the chair by the bedside and taking Maitimo’s hand in his own again, studiously avoiding looking at the stump of his right wrist, “but Irissë, I can’t leave him. You understand don’t you? I can’t leave him now, in case while I’m gone he… he…”

“He’s not going to die, Finno” she interrupted, but her tone was gentler. “Not now, anyway. They’ve done all they can. He’s out of danger, the healers said, remember?”

“But what if they’re wrong? What if he dies and I’m not here…”

“We would wake you of course, if anything was wrong.”

“Then what if he  _wakes_ , and I’m not here? He’ll think I left him. He’ll think I hate him…”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. We would simply tell him that you’d gone to sleep. Which is, after all, a completely reasonable thing for you to do. Damn it all, you’ve been awake for  _four days_ , Finno!”

“I slept yesterday.”

“Not for more than an hour. The healers told me.”

“Got your little spies watching over me, have you?”

She threw up her hands in exasperation. “Findekáno, would you  _listen_  to yourself. You’re acting paranoid.”

He glared at her, feeling annoyance spark within him at the sympathetic but determined look on her face. His head was spinning and he found it hard to remember what he was going to say. “I’m not tired” he muttered at last.

She let out a snort of disbelief.

“I’m not!”

“Hmm. Of course not.” Gently, she pushed him down into the chair again, and he turned away from her and leaned forward to peer intently at Maitimo’s face, watching for the smallest twitch of movement.  

He could hear Irissë pouring the tea behind him, the clink of metal and earthenware. He turned back, looking up at her in desperation. She pressed a cup firmly into his hands, before drawing up the other chair and seating herself beside him.

For a while the two of them simply stared at Maitimo’s prone form beneath the blankets and furs, each lost in their own thoughts.

“Drink that” said Irissë, nodding to the cup of tea in his hands.

Findekáno blinked down at it, inhaling the steam. “Chamomile” he said, flatly, taking a tiny sip. There was something bitter sweet there too, something he could not quite identify; perhaps even the herbs were different on this side of the sea, he thought. “I didn’t know it grew in these lands.”

“Well, it does” she said briskly, taking a sip of her own tea, then looking at him pointedly.

With a sigh, he took another sip of tea. The taste had transported him immediately back to his childhood in memory, his mother who had loved chamomile tea the best, the bright white and yellow flowers that had waved in the warm wind in the kitchen garden. They had not really been the right sort of flowers for the formal garden at the house of a royal prince, he supposed, but their father had always let their mother keep her herbs and spices and the sweet smelling flowers she liked so much.

He hoped that Maitimo could smell the quiet herbal fragrance, that it was weaving through whatever dark dreams he wandered in.

He sighed, taking another long sip despite himself. “Irissë” he said. “I…” but then he stopped, blinking. His head seemed heavy, dizzy suddenly, his limbs warm and loose, finger and toes turning numb and tingling.

He tried to speak again, Irissë quickly taking the cup as it started to slip from his limp fingers before the tea could spill to the ground. But it was no good; he could not form words, his voice coming out only as a quiet mewling sound.

He could feel his vision darkening at the edges, and even as he sat there he felt himself slump to one side in the chair, Irissë catching him in her arms, muttering comforting sounds in his ears. His head was on Irissë’s shoulder, her thick, curling black hair blocking out his vision, before all went dark and silent.

 

He woke slowly, as though his mind were swimming to the surface from beneath dark water. Disorientation seized him momentarily until he realised he was lying down in a bed, staring up at the ceiling. It was dark outside and the shutters were closed, though faint moonlight filtered through the cracks at their edges. A lampstone stood on the table, bathing one side of the figure at his bedside in silver-blue light and casting their other side into inky darkness.

He blinked a few times, squinting in the dazzling glare of the lampstone, until the person in the chair by his bed pulled a cloth over the light, dimming its harsh glow a little.

“M - Maitimo” he managed to stutter as his mind caught up with what he was seeing, his mouth unpleasantly dry and sour-tasting. A slight herbal bitterness clung to the back of his throat. “How is Maitimo? Is he…”

“He’s fine" said a familiar voice, clearly trying hard to sound soothing but brittle and tight despite all that. “He is sleeping too.”

“Turukáno.” Findekáno struggled to pull himself into a sitting position, watching his brother a little warily. It was the first time they had spoken since he had returned with Maitimo. “You're…”

“Here, yes” said Turukáno. “I told Irissë I would watch over you. Go back to sleep, Finno.”

“I…” he passed a hand over his face, thoughts becoming clearer all the while. The last he could remember was sitting by Maitimo’s bedside, and then there had been Irissë, and her cup of tea…  _or perhaps it had been his mother?_  He shook his head, putting that notion out of his mind. “Turno, did… did Irissë  _drug_  me?”

“Yes” said Turukáno calmly. “You were driving her to distraction. She was so worried about you, Findekáno, you should have seen her.”

Despite the careful coolness in his brother’s voice, Findekáno thought there was an accusatory hint there too. “And you… he said, treading carefully even as he squinted up at the shadows that threw his brother’s face into sharp relief. "Do you… do you feel…”

Turukáno sighed. “If you’re about to ask if I resent you, then save your breath, Finno. I feel…” he looked up at the ceiling suddenly, away from Findekáno. “I cannot pretend to understand why Manwë chose to help  _you_ , of all people.” His breath caught, and he gave a bitter, pained laugh. “Jealousy… well, there may be a bit of that, I suppose. But… but I cannot bring myself to  _truly_  resent you for coming back to us alive.”

Findekáno smiled weakly, feeling a sudden rush of affection for his brother, though they had grown distant and fractious with each other lately. Though it was dark, he could see the glitter of tears on Turukáno’s cheeks, caught in the lamplight.

He was trying to think of what to say to this, when the door opened, casting a sliver of warm firelight across the floor. Irissë tiptoed into the room, looking at Turukáno, speaking in a whisper.

“Is he…”

“He’s awake, Irissë.”

She smiled, raising her voice to normal levels. “Ah, good. I hope you slept well, Finno.”

He glared at her resentfully. “Was it  _really_  necessary to drug me, Irissë? Really?”

“Yes, actually, with the state you were in. You were not very coherent, and you kept snapping at me when I suggested you get some sleep.”

He frowned, then stiffened, sitting straight up. “If you’re here, then who is watching over Maitimo?”

“The healers are changing his bandages. And father and Turno and I have been taking turns.” She sat down beside Turukáno and tugged lightly on a tendril of Findekáno’s hair, which, he realised, someone had unbraided and brushed for him while he slept, leaving it loose about his shoulders. She gave him a weary smile, stroking his hair back softly from his face in a way that reminded him once more of their mother, then gently pushing him back into the pillows. “He’s never left alone, so don’t worry.”

Findekáno glanced at Turukáno dubiously, trying to imagine him watching over Maitimo. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

His displeasure must have shown, for his brother’s face went hard as stone again. Turukáno rolled his eyes, his voice taut, sharp as broken glass. “Finno, what is it, exactly, that you _suspect_  me of? Plotting to smother the son of Fëanáro with a pillow as he sleeps?”

“ _Turukáno_ ” hissed Irissë, jabbing an elbow into Turukáno’s ribs. “ _Don’t_.”

Findekáno winced. “Oh, don’t worry” he said bitterly, vicious anger suddenly prickling in his throat. “I know  _you’re_  not the kinslayer type.” He gritted his teeth, the pain returning once more, heavy and hard as though he had swallowed a stone. _Why can’t I have a normal conversation with my brother anymore_ , he thought.  _Why does it always go like this_?

He knew the answer to that, of course. Turukáno had not lifted blade at Alqualondë, had had no part in bringing the Doom down upon them all. Turukáno had failed to save Elenwë, abandoned by the Valar he had been so close to. Findekáno had saved Maitimo, two kinslayers delivered by the grace of Manwë, tearing all the sense and order from Turukáno’s world.

Turukáno had counselled against following Fëanáro; Findekáno had, in his naïvety, begged their father to lead them into this new world that, in the chaos and darkness of Tirion, had seemed to bright and full of promise.

Findekáno sighed, leaning back into the pillows and turning away from his brother and sister, folding his arms across his chest and staring into the depths of shadow that clung to the opposite wall.

“Finno” said Irissë, sternly into the silence. “Turno doesn’t mean it.”

Findekáno ignored her.

“ _Findekáno_.”

He rolled his eyes, turning back to them. “What?”

Turukáno was passing a hand over his face. “I'm… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, about Nelyo. I am truly glad for you, and that… that you still have him. I’m glad for your sake that he… that you did not lose him.”

Findekáno looked at him for a moment, going over his brother’s halting apology in his head. “Thank you, Turno” he said, quietly. “That's… that’s good of you.” He paused for a moment, then, not looking at Turukáno, he muttered. “You were always the best of us, you know.”

Turukáno blinked in surprise, and the two brothers stared at each other for a long moment, before Findekáno sat up once more, breaking the tension filling the air. “I think I will go and check on Maitimo again now” he said. He winced as he tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed, his feet still numb and unsteady. “Eru, Irissë, what did you  _put_  in that tea?”

“I don’t rightly know” she admitted. “It was in a little bottle by the side of Maitimo’s bed. I’d seen the healers using it to send him to sleep, but it’s some Sindarin potion or other. Nothing we would have used back home.”

Findekáno glared at her, then looked at his brother. “Let this be a lesson, Turno. Don’t let her ever learn about the local poisons and potions. Or, on second thoughts, let her learn, it’ll probably make us a lot safer if she actually  _knows_  what she’s putting in our drinks.”

“ _Let_  me?” said Irissë, looking between her brothers with a smile. “I don’t recall ever needing either of you to  _let_  me do anything.”

Findekáno could not help but smile at that, his first true smile in days. “That, at least, I am sure of.”

The two of them left him to dress, and wash in the basin placed behind the bed, but as they left the room, Irissë turned back to meet his eye once more. “Finno” she said, “once you’re finished, Atar would like to speak to you too.”

Findekáno nodded resignedly; he had been putting off that particular conversation, having spoken to his father only when some detail of Maitimo’s treatment brought Ñolofinwë to his nephew’s bedside. Findekáno had to admit he had been afraid to face his father properly, but now he knew it was time.

And yet, he thought, as he splashed cold water on his face, the fact that Maitimo lived and breathed in the room down the hallway - perhaps not quite whole, but his heart still beating - made it all worth it.

He knew he would survive; he had to.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh dear, Aredhel is only worried about Fingon, but her _methods_... all I can say is, please do not attempt this on your loved ones.


End file.
